


Fixes

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22156855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The repairman comes again.
Relationships: Connor/Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 94





	Fixes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s been over enough times that the doors scan and acknowledge him, smoothly sliding open to offer admittance. Connor spots the broken birds exactly where they were last time: in a little golden cage to the left of the lobby. He doesn’t need anyone to show him there or anyone to handle the transaction; the order and payment have already been handled through Mr. Manfred’s personal android. But that android’s standing there anyway, at the ready, like he always is. He smiles at Connor as though Connor’s a human repairman in need of such encouragement, when really, Connor’s just doing a job.

Connor curtly nods to Markus and walks straight past him. Both of the birds are on their sides at the bottom of the cage, LED lights a dull grey against their little yellow foreheads. Connor kneels down and opens the cage, fetching the first one with one hand and setting down his tool kit with the other. There’s an input port underneath the bird’s left wing that Connor flips open so he can attach it to his diagnostic machine. He’s programmed to effect repairs, but he requires a separate tool to run through less advanced circuitry as thoroughly as repairs require. 

Markus comes over to watch him work, just like every other time Connor’s come. While the machine whirrs through possible errors, Connor glances up and informs him, “This is the fifth time these have broken down this month. I highly suggest replacing them.”

“I could,” Markus agrees, hardly definitive. He shifts onto his other foot, his stance just a tad more casual than Connor’s own programming would allow. He is, of course, afforded his own mannerisms: personality algorithms meant to make humans more comfortable with him. He doesn’t go out of his way to employ them around other androids. Markus stands strong, tall, as though he’s always exactly as he is: never bending simply for humanity’s benefit. The early morning sun floods through the wide windows of the entranceway and silhouettes his back, washing his tanned skin an even more vivid shade of subdued brown. Connor realizes his gaze has strayed along Markus’ broad shoulders, and he returns himself to the conversation at hand. 

“Will you?” If Markus does want to order more birds, which he should, it would be best done through Connor’s company. That’s what his master would prefer. But Markus shakes his head.

“No.”

Connor lifts a brow and presses, “Why not?”

“Then I wouldn’t get to see you anymore.”

Connor simulates a blink. He doesn’t understand the significance of that. Given that odd behaviour, it occurs to Connor to ask, “Did you cause the malfunction intentionally?”

Markus’ brows draw together in an expression of offense. “Of course not. I wouldn’t hurt birds.”

“They’re androids.”

“So are we.”

“Yes,” Connor agrees, though he doesn’t see the correlation. Markus just looks at him, like it’s both obvious and important. Markus is quite a curious android. He reads as RK200, but there’s little information about the model in Connor’s database. He feels compelled to ask, “Does Mr. Manfred know your refusal to replace the defective product?”

“Yes.”

Connor doesn’t understand that either. Surely a human wouldn’t waste money continually repairing a defective product just so his android could see another. The machine beeps, and Connor disconnects it. Withdrawing a screwdriver and a pick, he swiftly makes the recommended adjustments, then does the same for the second bird. Both reactivate without problems, though Connor’s sure they’ll malfunction again soon.

As Connor gets back to his feet, Markus asks, “Would you like to stay?”

Connor looks at him. The behaviour is irrational. _Markus_ is irrational. But he looks at Connor with such surety, such confidence, that it’s difficult to argue. Connor knows he should. He has other jobs to attend to. Yet he asks, “What for?”

“I don’t know... perhaps Carl could paint you? Then I wouldn’t have to wait for the birds to break to look at you again.”

There’s no reason for the fluttering sensation that zips through Connor’s body. He’s incapable of feeling _flattered_. He reminds himself that if that’s indeed what he’s experiencing, it’s only a simulation. It’s not _real_. He tells Markus, “I’m a rare model, but hardly unique.”

“I don’t want to look at other RK800s. I want to see _you_.”

Connor blinks rapidly as his LED spins, processing, stressing, of course he should walk away right now. But he stares into Markus’ green eyes and finds that he can’t move. The grid that stretches up inside his mind orders him to. He can’t break through it and wouldn’t try. But smaller text boxes open up beneath his main objective, justifying his new thoughts: maybe he could just stay a _little_ while. 

Markus presses, “Stay.”

Somehow, Connor does.


End file.
